


Guilty All the Same

by Asterisked



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark!Dean, M/M, Post 9.16, mark of cain induced shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asterisked/pseuds/Asterisked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mark of Cain seeps into Dean's thoughts like a poison, numbing him, making him desire, twisting his mind. Dark!Dean</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guilty All the Same

**Author's Note:**

> I like the idea of the Mark of Cain corrupting the Righteous man...I keep seeing Dark!Dean things on tumblr and I wanted to give it a shot. :)

A fingernail scraped down the handrest of an antiquated chair in a repeated motion, varnish coming off the wood and grouping under the nail. The rest of the hand, calloused, worn, a killer’s hand, sat tensed from the movement of the one finger. The other hand gripped the opposite arm of the chair as the man sat between them, slouched, feet planted firmly onto the floor. Scrape. Scrape.

 

It was so quiet. Dean sat alone in the bunker in the main meeting room, books piled in front of him, all unopened. Sam had gone out for the evening. Crowley, gone. The dead silence of the empty bunker rang in Dean’s ears, punctuated by the faint scratching of his fingernail and nothing else. He was even deaf to the sound of his own heartbeat.

 

He stared off into the distance, eyes occasionally focusing on the guardrails of the main staircase and glazing over again. Scrape.

 

His arm twitched. Dean moved his loose gaze from where he had been half-assedly trying to focus it and rolled his eyes down to his arm where his shirt-sleeve had been pushed back hours before.

 

The Mark.

 

It stood out fiercely against his skin, a red brand for all the world to see.

 

Dean flexed his free hand and watched the Mark move slightly with the action of his skin tugging, watched how permanent the Mark was on him.

 

_It’s not just the Mark, is it Dean?_

He relaxed his hand, let it rest. His other hand resumed the scraping.

 

He had killed a man in cold blood.

 

A human man.

 

Dean had watched himself, almost as though from an outsider’s perspective, relentless, ruthless. No mercy. A _human_ man.

 

He had felt…nothing. No remourse. He knew he should have, absolutely, he knew exactly how he should have dealt with that situation. But hadn’t done it. And he...didn’t care.

 

 The Mark of Cain was _doing_ something to him. In his mind.  It fed off of him, fed off of his own cruelty, his own insecurities…and it was _good_.

 

Dean luxuriated in the sensation of this nothing, this guiltless existence, and he laughed, his finger halting on the armrest. A bitter sound echoed throughout the bunker, twisting through the corridors, and Dean knew it had been him.

 

Dean watched the stairwell once again. Kevin had left, as a ghost, on those stairs. He was _dead_.

 

Dean didn’t care.

 

Sam hated him, loathed him.

 

Dean didn’t care.

 

Another laugh, louder this time. It made the hairs on Dean’s arms raise.

 

He felt fevered. Nothing was real, was it? His skin felt like wax paper, brittle and smooth, the Mark a cruel blemish, but it was also what made him…beautiful.

 

His lips twisted upward, a hum rising in his chest. He raised a hand and ran it across his face, feeling the dry prickle of a few days’ stubble rake across his palm. That was better. Rougher, crueler.

 

Cain didn’t warn him about this. Dean hadn’t even let him try.

 

In some way, in _some way_ , Dean had known this would happen. Maybe he did it on purpose. It was almost pleasurable, this blank, empty feeling…he had not felt this way his entire life. Not when he had to shut himself away in Hell, torturing legions of souls. Not when he had to survive in Purgatory, his life a constant fight. Fighting wasn’t new to Dean.

 

No, this…this was new. Dean couldn’t _feel_ anything but the urge to be utterly selfish. Dean wanted for _himself_ , he wanted to kill, he wanted to destroy, and he wanted it for _him_. He wanted to _consume._ Righteous Man, indeed.

 

“Righteous…” he murmured, eyelids closing slightly, hand twitching for a blade.

 

Oh. The First Blade.

 

Yes…. _that had been the trigger._ Dean had been feeling off-centre since receiving the Mark from Cain, yes he had been down, but he had been _Dean_ -down: anxious, paranoid, angry, hurt…once Dean picked up that jawbone and felt it connect deep within his core…?

 

He could feel the Mark consume more, and so much quicker. More of him.

 

Abaddon.

The word flickered across the back of Dean’s hazy mind. She was the reason for all of this. He was…supposed to kill her.

 

Why?

 

What good would that do Dean?

 

Killing her would certainly be a pleasure, at least. Dean’s hand gripped the armrest and he pictured it: Stalking up behind her, maybe, the Blade in his hand, grabbing a fist full of her flaming hair and thrusting the Blade deep into her back, her surprised scream piercing the air, deep smoke pouring from her, blood running swiftly down his hands---

 

“Dean?”

 

With a groan, Dean rolled his eyes open and found that Castiel was descending down the stairwell.

 

Oh. _Castiel_.  Angel of the Lord. His _grace_. His _majesty_. Castiel the not-quite-human-not-quite-angel, who knows anymore _Clarence_? His Holy Fuckup himself.

 

Dean lips pull back into a mockery of a smile. “Hello… _Cas_.” He surveyed the angel as he stepped off the stairs and slowly walked over to Dean, faint concern crossing his face.

 

“Dean…are you all right?” Castiel stopped a few feet away, weary.

 

Something inside Dean surveyed Castiel with interest, the urge to _consume_ that he had been feeling before increasing in a strangle pulse through his body.

 

The angel stood before him, looking the same as usual, minus the familiar tie, scruffy and tired looking. Mop of dark hair. Piercing eyes.

 

When Castiel tilted his head in anticipation, worry creasing across his face at Dean’s long pause to answer, Dean felt the pulse in his core again. His body seemed to _move_ with the angel despite him never physically leaving his chair--he felt off-balance.

 

“I _feel_ fine.” Dean drawled, his words leaving his mouth thickly. Confusion flickered through the fog in his mind—what was happening to him?

 

Castiel took a step forward, crouching slightly to get a better look in Dean’s eyes. “What…what happened to you? You feel…strange.”

 

No, it was _Castiel_ that felt strange, Dean’s eyes lingering on the place where Castiel’s white shirt gaped slightly, showing his collarbones. In response to the angel’s question, keeping his eyes fixed on the gap, Dean wordlessly raised his arm.

The angel moved his gaze from Dean’s eyes to his arm, and like a whip lash, Castiel was gripping Dean’s forearm in both of his hands and hissing “—what did you _do_?”

 

“C’mon Cas, surely you know the Mark of Cain when you see it.” Dean grunted, the bite he had wanted to deliver in his words failing as the contact of skin on skin from Castiel made Dean writhe slightly in his seat.

 

“The Mark of Cain.” Castiel said faintly. “You found Cain…and he marked you.” His blue eyes rose to the ceiling in tiredness, a long breath exhaled from his lips. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Dean?”

 

Dean stared at the exposed expanse of Castiel’s throat as the angel tipped his head back to stare above him, looking at what, Dean didn’t know or care. He leaned forward, reaching out with his free hand and gripping the angel’s lapel, yanking him forward. Castiel tripped forward with a surprised-- ah!—and Dean pressed his face into the juncture of Castiel’s neck and shoulder, inhaling sharply.

 

 “Dean, what…” Castiel breathed as Dean moved his nose and lips across his skin there, hand shoving aside the neck of Castiel’s shirt. God, he smelled _good_ , like something bright and delicious, something that made Dean’s hand clench tighter into the fabric of Castiel’s trenchcoat and something dark curl in Dean’s stomach. He groaned.

 

“Dean, Dean I have to clear your mind,” Castiel was saying, his words vibrating in his throat, Dean could feel them as his pressed his mouth there. The angel was breathing very quickly, his skin moving with the effort, chest rising up and down as he stood awkwardly in front of Dean, bent over slightly with his hands braced on the armrest of Dean’s chair, Dean’s hands forcing his neck down. It wasn’t enough.

 

Dean let go of Castiel’s lapel and quickly wrapped an arm around the angel’s waist, pulling him roughly onto Dean’s lap, long legs going on either side of Dean’s as Castiel fumbled to stay upright. His eyes widened once the movement was over and he took stock of where he was sitting, Dean’s eyes dark and clouded over.

 

“This isn’t you, Dean. The Mark is feeding you primal desires—let me help you.” Castiel said through quick breaths. His brows furrowed, something strange flickering across his eyes, before reaching forward and taking Dean’s face between his hands. Dean parted his lips and exhaled, his hands slipping under Castiel’s coat and sliding up his ribcage. Castiel’s next breath was shaky, but his resolve seemed steely.

 

Dean felt the warmth of Castiel’s hands on his face, felt the warmth of him on his lap, and he was growing hard, the sight of the angel’s legs on either side of him, his face so close—something monstrous was happening to him, and Dean registered this, because _Castiel_ , of all people? But…Dean was growing more and more motivated to do despicable things to the angel the longer he was in Dean’s presence, and Dean was getting less and less hung up on who he wanted, only that he _wanted_ —and thoughts of why Castiel should bug him as a prospective lay left his mind and he did what seemed right—he gripped Castiel’s waist and _rolled_ his hips.

 

Castiel’s grip on the sides of Dean’s head loosened slightly as he let out a surprised gasp, bright eyes fixed on Dean’s, cheeks turning a faint shade of pink. His brows were furrowed, and Dean could tell he was conflicted— _hmm, he wants this._

 

“Cas…” Dean sighed the name greedily, and that seemed to snap Castiel out of his stupor, and his eyes flashed bright blue briefly.

 

Dean cried out as something vicious assaulted his mind—he could feel it worming into his brain, something hazy and white instead of the creeping, thick red that had been building in there, and with a _snap_ of clarity, Dean came back.

 

Castiel was clambering back off of Dean’s lap, a light sweat at his temples, breathing harshly.

 

_Oh, fuck._

 

Dean swallowed, getting to his feet shakily. “Cas…oh God, Cas. I’m…” _What have I done?_

Castiel braced himself on the table, touching his neck lightly. “It’s fine, Dean, you weren’t in control of yourself.” He wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes.

 

“Cas…I’m so sorry. I’m just so fucked up.” He whispered, willing Castiel to look at him, _what is happening to me? What was that? I don’t…I don’t even know how much of that was…_

 

“I have made a temporary seal against the effects of the Mark in your mind…but it will fade with time,” Castiel said gruffly, licking his lips. “Dean, I can’t even begin to tell you how stupid it was of you get that Mark in the first place.” Suddenly, he raised his head and stared Dean in the eyes, and something inside Dean made him want to cringe and shield his eyes, this creature was too bright.

 

“I came here to get your advice on a matter, but, I’m not sure if I want it if your judgment is so far gone as to get this done to yourself.” His words were angry and laced with hurt, embedding themselves into Dean’s chest like barbs. He stood silently, stunned, miserable.

 

“Cas…” Dean whispered. “I…” He couldn’t form the right words, all he needed to say, _I’m sorry I didn’t think of you when I did this,  you’re my family too, I’m sorry I’m needy and lonely and small, I’m sorry I’m despicable, I’m sorry I’m pathetic, I’m sorry I did this to you I’m sorry—_

Castiel’s eyelids lowered slightly as he took in Dean’s shaking frame, and, stepping forward, he laid a hand on the man’s shoulder.

 

“It’s fine, Dean.”

 

It truly wasn’t, though, and Dean was powerless to stop Castiel from ascending the staircase and leaving him alone again, this time without the cushion of the Mark of Cain to excuse his dark thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! I know it's short, but, it's also my first Supernatural fic. An odd scenario, but feedback is certainly appreciated!


End file.
